


Beneath the Music from a Farther Room

by NOTgingerninja



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breakfast, Discombobulation, IN HIS DRESSING GOWN, Jam, John hides things in his sock drawer, John needs his tea, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marriage, More Fluff, Pure Unadulterated Fluff, SO, Sally is a sass-meister, Scones, Sherlock hates being called 'Boffin', Sherlock is arrogant as hell, Sherlock is daft, Sherlock is ticklish, Sherlock keeps body parts in mugs, Sherlock keeps scalpels, Tea, The Author Apologises, The Author Has Issues, also Sherlock loves Toy Story, and adorable, and clumsy, eyebrow porn, in abundance, john loves his jam, more jam, or shit will go down, raspberry this time, ruined jumpers, sherlock has a purple dressing gown, this is so fluffy I apologise, this makes sense to me I promise, why
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:43:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NOTgingerninja/pseuds/NOTgingerninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The domestic troubles of the world's only consulting detective, and the man who stole his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the taking of a toast and tea

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my very first fic, so all comments/ideas for further improvement gratefully received :) Title comes from 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock' by TS Eliot

On the morning of his 33rd birthday, Doctor John Watson smiled down at the letter he held, as always, embossed with the sender's trademark emblem. It was a letter edged with gold leaf, the kind of epistle that makes the recipient feel unworthy even to touch it, it was so lavish and extravagant. Smiling indulgently at it once more, he pocketed it and strolled downstairs. As he approached the kitchen, he became aware of an acrid burning smell, and a series of expletives uttered in the dulcet tones of his husband. Chuckling, he drew a deep breath and entered the smoking kitchen.

Sherlock had been cooking. Or at the very least, attempting to cook. A full English, by the look of the charred bacon and sausage, the curdled scrambled eggs and squashed tomatoes that littered the normally pristine kitchen. HIS pristine kitchen goddamnit. They had the rules for a reason, and one of them was that the kitchen belonged to John. So it was with exasperation and irritation that he asked, 'and what exactly were you trying to achieve?' Sherlock looked up sheepishly from the burnt toast he held in his hands, and John saw the shame in his eyes, and a flush of anger on his cheeks. 'I...well I...was trying..." Then John noticed the now wilting flowers on the breakfast bar, and the fat-splattered envelope on a tray that also held a steaming cup of tea and a few chocolates. As he realised what all the fuss was about, his heart melted for his husband, who was currently gazing up at him through his eyelashes ashamedly  
"Sherlock, was this for my birthday?" John asked. When Sherlock's head inclined slightly, John was surprised to feel his nose and eyes pricking, and his cheeks wet with sudden tears. He choked them down and opened his arms. Sherlock didn't respond. John stood there with his arms held open for a few moments, until he began to feel idiotic and dropped them to his sides. And all this while Sherlock clear ice-blue eyes just stared into John's brown ones, with an almost puzzled look on his face. Only THAT couldn't be right, because Sherlock Holmes was never puzzled, confused, unsure or discombobulated. He was Sherlock. And yet, he seemed not to know what was going on.  
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, taking a tentative step forward, and then another. The closer he got to his husband the more certain he became of Sherlock's confusion; his brows were deeply lined in thought and his jaw was trembling slightly. Alarmed, John repeated his question, louder now. "Look at me. What's wrong?!" The raised volume seemed to rouse something in Sherlock and he seemed to shake himself from something. He looked at John. John looked back at him. Finally, in a low hurried voice, Sherlock spoke.  
"I messed it all up." he said, his chin beginning to quiver. "I'm so sorry".

John was dumbfounded. Not only because this was undoubtedly the first time Sherlock had ever apologised to him, and that included the time he'd smashed the TV by tripping over the skull, AND the time he'd mistakenly assumed John had been listening to his thoughts, internally asked him to catch the dog brain he was working on. That particular episode had ruined John's brand-new jumper, and tension in the flat had been unbearable for weeks afterwards. But now, here he was, apologising of his own accord, and close to tears to boot. John took a few steps closer to Sherlock, and listed his dejectedly drooping chin with a work-calloused finger. Sherlock allowed his head to be raised, but wouldn't let his ice blue eyes meet John's brown ones.  
They stood like this for a while, the world's greatest brain, and the man who held his heart.

Then, wordlessly, John placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead and smiled.  
"Come on," he said, turning towards the kitchen. "I'll make toast. Have we got any of that strawberry jam left?"

Later, he tucked the embossed envelope into his sock drawer. There had been too many surprises for one day.


	2. Time to go back and descend the stair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes the matter of the letter into his own hands. Sort of.

In retrospect, John should have known better. He should have known that there were no secrets from Sherlock Holmes. He had lived with the man for what, 4 years?! And what was one of the very first things Sherlock had told him?

"I never miss a thing. There is not a soul alive that has ever deceived me."

And so he should not have been surprised that morning, three days after his birthday, when he sat down on the sofa with a cup of tea and the Sunday Times. He had just finished reading the sport pages, when he saw the corner of a familiar purple dressing gown disappearing into the kitchen. John remembered with chagrin the last time Sherlock had gone into the kitchen with a non-scientific intent, and so dragged himself from the sofa for the sake of his kitchen furniture. 

When he walked into the kitchen however, there were no body parts, and no charred food. Just Sherlock, sitting at his microscope with... John's heart stopped momentarily. Under the gaze of Sherlock's'microscope was an envelope. A stylish cream envelope edged with gold leaf. The selfsame envelope in fact, that John had hurriedly stuffed to the back of his sock drawer a few days ago. 'Bugger'. John thought, as he walked slowly towards the microscope and his husband. As he drew closer he realised Sherlock had at least had the decency to leave the envelope intact, with the blood red seal intact. But the seal was extremely distinctive, and John highly doubted Sherlock would fail to identify it. 

"The sock drawer John? A bit twelve years old don't you think?" Sherlock hadn't even looked up from the eyepiece, and John was sure he hadn't made a sound. He loved Sherlock with everything he had, but his many foibles were sometimes a bit hard to get used to. It took a few moments before John even realised that Sherlock was waiting for an answer, and tried to reboot his brain, which had faltered at the sight of a deliciously touseled Sherlock. 

"Erm..." he stuttered.

Sherlock raised an elegantly arched brow in what could easily be seen as disdain, but which was in fact merely the face with which Sherlock regarded the world in general, waiting for an interesting contribution. And in that instant, the contribution he was waiting for was going to come from John. And John was standing there, lost in Sherlock's ice-blue eyes. 

A subtle cough brought him back to reality. Sherlock was now looking at him with what could nicely be described as curiosity. With difficulty, John began to re-form coherent speech.

"Well it always worked as a hiding place in the past," he said. "I can vouch for its efficiency is hiding bad school reports, packets of cigarettes, and many other such elicit items over the years."

"But you didn't live with me then."

"No, I suppose I should have refined my technique a little more to deal with 'Boffin' Sherlock Holmes" John said, the beginnings of a smile curving around his lips.

"Boffin? Boffin?!"

"Boffin Sherlock Holmes solves another case... Boffin Sherlock cracks it again... Boffin Holmes leaves police baffled... Boffin boffin boffin!"

With every 'boffin' John had moved closer to Sherlock, and now punctuated the words with pokes to Sherlock's sides. The fact that Sherlock was intensely ticklish had come as a surprise to John, but once he had accustomed himself to this new side of Sherlock, (along with his secret love of Toy Story, which had caused Sally Donavon to call him Buzz for months, and ask everyone and anyone to take his batteries out at any opportunity,) he had grown to love the softer side of him, as much as he loved the Sherlock he had initially fallen in love with.

This love was not filling his body today however, as Sherlock struggled free from his grasp and returned to his workbench, grabbing the envelope once more. And when Sherlock turned to him with his customary accusatory stare, John could detect a hint of something new and different in his eyes. 

"John," Sherlock began, and now the new hint in his eyes was reflected in his voice, there was urgency in his tone, almost desperation. "John, if you want to keep secrets from me then I am fine with that. I guess I thought," and now John identified the new quality to his speech and in his eyes: hurt, "I thought you trusted me as much as I trusted you. I would never, never keep a secret from you John."

John looked at Sherlock, completely dumbfounded.

"I... I had no idea you felt like this," he said, walking forward and taking Sherlock into his arms. He kissed the unruly black curls again and again, and held his husband tight. "It's nothing like the deep secret you imagine it to be, it's just something that came as a surprise to me, and I wasn't sure whether to open it myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what are the contents of the letter?! Thank you so much to people who liked Chapter 1, hope this one lives up to standards! Xx


	3. A Tedious Argument of Insidious Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know who it's from, and I'm fairly sure about what's in it," John said, as Sherlock relaxed in his embrace, "I'm just not sure I'm ready to confront in on paper just yet. That's the only reason I didn't tell you, I promise."

"I know who it's from, and I'm fairly sure about what's in it," John said, as Sherlock relaxed in his embrace, "I'm just not sure I'm ready to confront in on paper just yet. That's the only reason I didn't tell you, I promise."

He held Sherlock for a short while longer, until realising that it had been roughly half an hour since he first entered the kitchen, and he was yet to have anything to eat, or more importantly, drink. With this devastating fact prevalent in his mind, he disentangled himself from Sherlock's long, cool arms and set off purposefully for the kitchen.

A hush settled over 221B, the only sounds the whir of the geriatric kettle and the clinks of the mug cupboard as John extricated two of the only non-chipped pieces of crockery. A joke Christmas present from Sally, one mug was emblazoned with "Mr." in slapdash navy blue print, and the other bore a lurid pink, curling "Mrs." That Christmas party, all the attendees had made lewd jokes about who would be taking ownership of which mug, and they had been shoved to the back of the cupboard, and henceforth completely forgotten. However, John preferred not to drink out of a mug that had contained pickled eyeballs or bodily organs or fluid of any description. Which excluded pretty much all the mugs they owned. So needs must. He poured the hot water, then deliberately put milk and sugar on a tea-tray and carried it over to the sofa, where Sherlock sat, his long legs curled under him. He looked up expectantly, and John set the tray gently down on the low table. Sherlock quickly looked from John to the table, the clear blue of his eyes briefly locking with John's. 

He reached out a slender hand, the index finger slightly crooked from its accustomed position cradling Sherlock's violin, and hooked his fingers around the handle of a mug. He sipped delicately, blowing on the black tea to cool it. The ripples floating across the cup matched the ripples of John's abdomen as he struggled manfully to surpress his laughter; pouring milk generously into the "Mr." mug. He could almost sense Mycroft chuckling into his surveillance cameras. 

And silence fell over 221B once more. John sipped his tea and winced, then leaned back and allowed his eyes to drift closed; thinking about scones. Scones and raspberry jam...

"So. John. This letter." Sherlock's acerbic tone cut through the start of his reverie, and John's eyes flew instantly open. Sherlock was swinging the now-empty mug from his thumb (how had he drunk that tea so fast, John found himself thinking, then berated himself for getting so easily distracted). He gathered his thoughts and looked from the swinging mug to Sherlock, and back again, trying to buy himself some time. 

When even he felt he'd dragged it out for as long as was acceptable, he cleared his throat and reached for the letter, lying on the coffee table. He fingered the austere red wax seal for a moment or two, before looking up at his husband through his eyelashes. He sighed, and leant over to Sherlock. He pushed one hand into Sherlock's purple dressing gown, and felt the silk ripple against his fingers until he found what he knew, even without asking, would be somewhere in the pocket. He turned the scalpel over in his hand and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who surprisingly had the humility to avert his face from John's dry look and raised eyebrows. 

John pushed the end of the scalpel under the wax and slowly, carefully prised the wax off of the rich creamy paper, some of which resolutely clung to the perfect red circle, drawing a small sound of displeasure from Sherlock. He ignored it, and pulled out a sheet of luxurious ivory paper, upon which words were written in elegant, sloping script. He unfolded it fully, skimmed it and chuckled to himself.

"I was right," he murmured, looking down at the letter once more, before shaking it out and clearing his throat. He turned to Sherlock, and smiled. "Would you like to know what it says?"

A muscle was twitching in Sherlock's jaw. His fists were loosely balled, and his eyes were narrowed. All tell-tale signs taken alone, but put together they portrayed one very clear fact: John knew something Sherlock didn't know, but wanted to know. And looking at Sherlock as he gave a terse jerk of the head, John was sure he had never seen Sherlock so desperate to know something John knew in his life. He smoothed a non-existent crease from the top of the paper, coughed once more, and directed his gaze to the beginning of the page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken such a long time - I write these on my phone, and it's been out of action for ages! Hopefully the next one will be up sooner x

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah... It's almost shamefully fluffy, but I don't really care. There are more chapters coming, with the view to smushing in a bit of Avengers at some point. Please leave any comments below, and thanks for reading xox


End file.
